


The Candles We Burn

by Squintern



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: -waves hand vaguely- canon, -waves other hand vaguely- time, All comfort no hurt, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, no beta we don’t die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squintern/pseuds/Squintern
Summary: Any other night he might’ve crawled out of bed and gone out to the back garden and stood in the storm.—Or, Nicky lies awake attempting metaphors in the safety of their bed.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 12
Kudos: 133





	The Candles We Burn

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally nothing more than 2am ramblings and a poor, unsuspecting victim of my comma splicing habit.
> 
> Title shamelessly ripped right from the song of the same name by Adam Holdsworth and you should DEFINITELY go listen to it, on repeat, while you read this.

Joe sleeps through the storm.

The rain is coming in through the window next to their bed, but Nicky won’t be moving to close it anytime soon. It’s a deep summer storm, with shattering rain and thunder that rolls instead of crashes, lighting that twists in the sky, cutting through the dark just long enough to be felt then gone. Nicky loves these kinds of storms.

Another spray of water sends goosebumps up his arms, but he ignores the chill. On the bedside table the candles they’d lit, already half burned from some unremembered year so long ago, flicker and gutter at the raindrops, but they don’t go out. Nicky admires the pooling of wax, the way they’ve all melted into one, indistinguishable from each other and dripping on to the floor. It’s a familiar feeling.

In his arms, Joe stirs just a bit, tucking his nose more tightly against Nicky’s chest. His hair is short this decade, cut close to his head, and his beard is shaved. Nicky misses the curls, but like this he can bite along the sharp edge of his lover’s jaw and tongue the hinge and corner until Joe goes weak and, like now, scrape his fingers along his scalp until he settles again. Joe’s arm slides that much more securely around Nicky’s middle and Nicky responds in kind. One of the candles on the nightstand tilts more into the mess of wax.

He feels more than hears when Joe murmurs something against his skin. It’s not often, but it’s impossible not to live hundreds of years without stumbling on  _ something _ new; sometimes Joe talks in his sleep. Nicky suspects he might as well, because when has one ever done something without the other, because they’re one in all but body and even then the lines can blur, like now, like now. If he does, though, no one has ever mentioned and Joe has certainly never witnessed it.

He’s floating a bit on the summer storm and lingering in that soft warm place he can get to after a particularly good night with Joe, and this had been a  _ particularly _ good night, so he doesn’t really pick up on the words. He can’t even tell the language, whatever it is Joe’s saying is less than a breath ghosting over his chest. Still, Nicky can guess at the words, mostly nonsense probably because without the direction of another immortal to find Joe’s dreams are mostly nonsense. Aside from the nightmares, that is. But tonight is not a nightmare. It’s a dream, a restless one Nicky thinks as Joe shifts again, but not a nightmare.

Joe scoffs so suddenly, so clearly, Nicky nearly laughs and wakes him up. It’s the sound he makes when Andy, even though he knows she does it just to rile him up, says that there’s absolutely no food he could cook for her immediately that would be more satisfying than the tiny cup of dehydrated macaroni and artificial cheese that she finds so deeply amusing. It’s the sound he makes to rile Booker up, in turn, when he goes off on one of his rants about reading anything that’s been translated from the original language because  _ it loses so much magic when it’s translated and besides, they all know enough languages to read the original so what is this translation doing in the house at all _ . It’s the sound he makes when Nicky says he’s got a headache, even if they’re both fighting back smiles because when has Nicky ever turned Joe down and how absolutely ridiculous would it be to imagine he wants to. Nicky’s mouth twists into the sort of smile Joe would demand he hold as he grabbed for a sketchbook because he never gets to see it enough. The thunder rolls and Nicky thinks he might let Joe see it in the morning.

Joe’s breaths gain shape and Nicky wonders if the storm is passing or Joe’s getting louder. He mutters darkly in Arabic about purchasing a - the word escapes Nicky for a moment as Joe twists out of his arms in abject affront even in his sleep. Nicky chases Joe across the sheets to wrap him in his arms again. A summer hare, that’s what he’s attempting to purchase, though Nicky has no idea why, nor why the seller won’t give it to Joe for a half crown and their best goat. It does seem a rather steep price for a single hare. Nicky presses his smile into the back of Joe’s neck. The rain makes another valiant attempt to get inside and Nicky tightens his arms around Joe, dragging him just a bit further into the curve of his own body.

Joe settles again and Nicky hopes he’s come to an agreeable arrangement with his subconscious seller, or that they have more goats at the farm in his mind so even losing their best won’t mean losing all their milk. If he asks about it in the morning he will get to hear Joe laugh. Of course it’s not as rare an occurrence as his own, but Nicky can be possessive sometimes and when Joe laughs just for him the world rights itself so that Nicky never even knew what was out of place. Lighting illuminates their bedroom and Nicky watches its spidery branches claw their way back to the sky, so desperate to return to the thundering cloud cover. He draws a ragged line down Joe’s chest, mimicking the shape. Joe shifts again, turning on his side just enough to tuck his nose under Nicky’s jaw.

The storm is passing, faster than Nicky would like. Any other night he might’ve crawled out of bed and gone out to the back garden and stood in the storm. The fury of nature brings something primal to the surface of him and the feel of rain on his skin, electricity snapping in the air around him, sets it alight and howling with joy beneath his breastbone. The first time Joe had seen him in a storm Nicky had tried to explain it. Exaltation, he had said in his own tongue. Joe had merely cocked his head to the side, unable to understand, and come over to divest Nicky of his wet clothes to tempt him further into his exhalations. It wasn’t until years later that Nicky had the words in a language they both understood, but by then Joe had known without the telling of it. He wouldn’t have moved from this bed tonight if all the Gods he’d ever heard of had sent the lighting down to his doorstep as an invitation.

Enough years of sleeping with Nicky in his arms has built more than a habit in Joe’s subconscious and he moves again. They fall back into their original position, Nicky on his back with Joe sprawled half across his chest. One of Joe’s arms crowds its way into the space beneath Nicky’s shoulder blade and the other stretches across his waist, fingers brushing the tender skin of his side. Joe exhales a small satisfied sound, the same one he lets out when Andy tosses the Easy Mac in the trash, or Booker throws his hands up and laughs in spite of himself, or Nicky undoes his own pants to get them both naked that much faster. Nicky smiles again. From here, he can watch the candles again as they melt that much more into each other. The scent of the wax mingles with the heady scent of  _ them _ and the summer storm seems to blow further away.

Joe slings a leg over Nicky’s, plastering himself more closely to his side. The thunder rolls, far in the distance, and Nicky settles. He runs his fingers over the arm around his middle and finds a proper place for his hand at the center of Joe’s back. One of the candles on the nightstand finally flickers out, overcome by the wax of the other two. In the morning Nicky might dig the wick out and straighten it for next time, but maybe not. He would hate to ruin the unintended sculpture built here. Or perhaps the metaphor has just gotten away from him now. His eyes drift closed before he thinks to douse the other two flames. There is no danger here anyway. They’ll run out of wick like the other, or stay burning until morning, but there’s nothing for them to catch on and spread. He curls his fingers around Joe’s bicep and lets his head roll comfortably to face the open window as sleep washes over him at last.

Maybe it will storm again tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> FINE I will now finish at least one of my longer fics.


End file.
